Fic: The Soul Lies Down (8/?) - part 1
Title: The Soul Lies Down (8/?) - part 1
Pairing(s): Buffy/Spike, (Anya/Xander, Willow/Tara)
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~13,500 this chapter (~41,500 total)
Timeline: AU S5, S6, S7 and post-series
Warnings: character death, violence and gore
Summary: As a child, I used to dream of a man in black and white, spinning in the desert like a dervish, sword flashing in the moonlight as he danced with death.(A sequel/companion to angearia's Fin Amour).
Notes: Welp. Sorry it took so long, folks. What can I say? There's been sickness, procrastination, a failed IVF cycle and getting side-tracked by other people's fanfiction... I lay my neck on the cutting block of your patience! Huge thanks to angearia and rahirah, for semicolons, capslocking, malapropism fail (prevention of), awesome character insight and all round beta kickassness :) Sadly my goddess yavannie82 has had to bow out due to participating in this year's NaNoWriMo, but I absolutely have to thank her too because even though she hasn't read it, this chap wouldn't have been half as good without the suggestions and discussion she gave me along the way. Concrit is welcome. Also available on Elysian Fields.
8
Between Reason and Desire
“Hey, um… can I talk to you about something?”
“Of course, Buffy.”
They were sitting on Buffy’s bed, she, Willow and Tara, luxuriating in the New Year’s salesy goodness and dressing Dawnie up in a series of cute new dress-and-shoes combos like a little doll. The bed was a sea of tissue paper and clothes, Dawn bouncing around on her butt and shrieking in delight at the way it crinkled up in her fists. Right now she had on a white satin dress with little pink bows around the waistband, pretty but completely impractical for the world-class drooler Dawn was these days. Buffy had bought it immediately, and then proceeded to wipe Dawn down from sticky head to grubby toes before letting her within three feet of it. It was really tempting to ask Willow to do some kind of stay-clean spell, because she just looked so darn cute, with her little matching headband and sparkly silver shoes. Maybe this was why women wanted babies? The extra retail opportunities were definitely a bonus. Plus, totally guilt free. Kids needed clothes, right?
Tara looked between Buffy and Willow. “Shall I… I can take Dawnie downstairs if you guys want to…”
“No, Tara, stay,” Buffy said. I might need you, she didn’t add. “Right. Okay. Um. You know how we all make choices? And sometimes they’re good, and… sometimes they’re… less good.”
Willow frowned slightly but nodded. “Uh huh…”
“Well, lately, I, uh… see, there’s this thing with Spike, where I, I keep, um… kissing him.”
She glanced up from under her brow to see their reactions. There was surprise, a little concern. Nothing outrageous yet. Okay, keep breathing.
“Buffy… what?” Willow’s tone was kind of prim and chastising. She seemed to realize it herself a moment later. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong. I don’t wanna be all judgmental girl.” She glanced at Tara, who gave her a soft look in return, and Buffy abruptly remembered her own reaction to Willow’s coming out. Yeah, maybe she deserved some freakage. “But I guess this falls under the less good choices category? That’s why you’re telling us, right?”
“I don’t know, Will,” she said, trying to stop herself from hunching up into the little ball she wanted to be. “He’s… it was weird. He’s been weird, ever since the last time. And the first time he didn’t even mention it. I don’t- no, sweetheart, don’t eat it.”
The following pause was long and awkward, and Buffy focused on the lump of soggy tissue wrap she’d pried out of Dawn’s fingers like an eagle zoning in on a mouse.
“Do you love him?” That was Tara.
“No!” Head snapping up she looked between them. “God, no. It was just… spur of the moment, I guess. But I thought… I didn’t think he’d get all bad moody about it.”
Not that Spike’s behavior had been especially bad, given what he was capable of. But he had become stiff with her, short and distant. Maybe not noticeably, to the others, but she felt it. The smiles and jokes and little digs were gone, and so was her sense of ease. And she missed it. Badly.
“Do you have any feelings for him? Because Buffy, if you don’t, I gotta say I kinda sympathize with the guy.”
Buffy stared at Willow wide-eyed. “What?”
“He’s been in love with you for a long time,” Tara said, voice gentle but something pointed in her expression that made Buffy feel mean and small.
“I remember what that’s like,” Willow added. “Knowing it’ll never come back to you, but doing it anyway because you just can’t stop yourself.”
“Oh, baby,” Tara murmured, pressing a tender kiss into her temple. “All that’s in the past.”
They smiled at each other with a quiet, joyous intimacy that made Buffy flush.
“It’s not that I don’t feel anything,” she said, eyes downcast. “It’s just… god, it’s so complicated. Because on the one hand, hey, it’s Spike the vampire, and wanting him, that’s icky and wrong. But on the other hand, he’s the guy who’s Dawnie’s daddy, and then it’s actually kinda normal, right? People expect a child’s parents to be attracted to one another, don’t they?” She could hear the desperation in her own voice.
It was just so damn unsettling, the way she was feeling so on all of a sudden; the fact that it was Spike making her feel that way. The things he made her dream about. God, the things she thought about while still awake. Being with someone like that was supposed to be beautiful, precious. With Riley she’d learnt it could be fun, too, but she’d never thought of herself as the kind of girl who got distracted by an off-hand mention of the restraints Spike said he kept in his weapons’ chest back at the crypt. Like thoroughly, gear-grindingly, stutteringly distracted and in desperate need of an emergency cold shower. There had to be something wrong with her, she knew it, but she couldn’t make it stop, the desire to touch him, reach out to him, rub up against him and… yeah. And the fact that Willow and Tara weren’t blessing her to go forth and get the dirty out of her system was… was… either really infuriating or the biggest relief she’d ever felt. Maybe she’d even figure out which it was by the time they were done talking.
Willow was looking at her nonplussed. “He’s the mystical equivalent of a sperm donor, Buffy.”
Well, that was an effective dampener. She screwed up her nose at the imagery. “Ew.”
Tara placed her hand pointedly over Willow’s. “It’s not unnatural to be curious about… that,” she said. “And he is. Attractive.”
“Hey!” Willow said.
“Just an objective assessment, sweetie,” Tara said, a small, sly smile turning up one corner of her mouth.
“But?” Buffy asked, bracing herself.
Tara looked down at the baby on the bed between them, Dawn chewing on her fist and watching the three of them now as if they were the most interesting tennis match in the history of ever.
“But Dawn,” she said simply.
Buffy wanted to say it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that she’d been saddled with this mystical crap she’d never asked for, not fair that she wasn’t even legally allowed to drink and yet had to be responsible - entirely responsible - for a whole other tiny person. Not fair that she couldn’t be young and stupid, and make reckless, impulsive decisions because they felt good at the time.
And then Dawn took that moment to give Buffy a dazzling smile that hit her in the heart like a flaming arrow.
“Yeah,” she said, struck with love. “Dawn.”
*
“That’s it?”
They stood side by side staring at the barely-there hole in the ground at the back of the empty Christmas tree lot. Spike looked thoroughly unimpressed and Buffy just shrugged. “You know Sunnydale. There’s a whole network of caves down there.” She shuddered in abrupt remembrance of three Christmases ago - was it really so few? - and glanced involuntarily up at the sky. The night was clear and as chill as it ever got in California, stars twinkling and breath fogging. No snow. She couldn’t help sliding her eyes then to Spike, an undefined anxiousness prickling her skin.
“You’re not-” she started, stopped, sucked in the corner of her mouth. “You don’t-”
Spike raised his scarred eyebrow at her impatiently, clearly annoyed, and she felt oddly like recoiling. It had been like that since Christmas. Since they had kissed again under the mistletoe like a big holiday cliché.
Since her talk with Willow and Tara, Buffy had tried to figure out how to smooth things over with him, maybe even - god - apologize. But she sucked at that stuff, holding onto a distant but cherished hope that she could just ignore it and everything would eventually go back to normal. Well things hadn’t, and relations between them still felt so prickly, but she didn’t have a clue how to fix it.
“I was going to ask you if you ever felt guilty for the things you’ve done,” she snapped, “because the First uses stuff like that against you, but you know what? Never mind.”
The worst part was, despite her best intentions, his mood would inevitably rub off on her and she couldn’t help bristling in response, like a pair of mongeese or something. She was so sick of it. One day maybe she’d even be sick enough to bite her tongue. Right, uh huh, and pigs would fly and hell would freeze over, and Buffy would live in the burbs and bake cookies and get a job in daylight hours like a real girl.
Spike’s expression was hard and incredulous. “Hello, vampire here. Didn’t think I was capable of all those squidgy feelings you humans prize.”
“Angel was a vampire too,” she said, voice low. The memory of standing on top of that hill in the haze of impending sunrise, begging - begging him - not to let himself dust, would never, ever leave her.
“Well I’m not sodding Peaches, okay?” Spike ground out. He sniffed and turned away, a tendon ticking in his jaw, and she thought he muttered, “Made that abundantly clear,” but it was hard to tell with the cigarette he had shoved between his lips.
“Excuse me for caring,” she muttered with an eye roll, crouching down to shine her flashlight into the cave opening. Not too far down, it was an easy jump. She tucked it into her jacket pocket and slid her legs down into the hole. “Coming? Or are you going to skulk around up here all night?”
A couple of seconds later he landed behind her lightly and more gracefully than she had, which only served to get on her nerves.
“Course I don’t feel guilty,” he continued, as though the conversation hadn’t been emphatically over. “Why would I? Just following my nature, and if I enjoyed myself a bit along the way, well, I wager you’d know a thing or two about that, Slayer.”
She shone the flashlight square in his eyes and was disappointed when he didn’t even flinch, smirking at her instead in a way that was more chilling than that other thing that normally happened, low in her belly. He didn’t seem even remotely human in that moment, and it came to her jarringly that, in fact, he wasn’t. And now he wasn’t pretending anymore.
No. No, that wasn’t right. She knew him better than that. He was just fishing for a reaction, as usual. Only, why that reaction was disgust, she had no idea.
Ugh, stupid vampire.
“Shut up, Spike,” she said, but it lacked bite, maybe because right then he had enough for both of them. Something flashed across his face, not hurt or anger, but something, and it chased the unearthly edges from his expression. She could worry about what exactly it had been later because just then a faint echo reached them, and it sounded like footsteps.
“Take point,” she told him tersely, intending to make use of his superior hearing, and unsheathed the sword she wore strapped across her back. Spike nodded, producing an axe from god knew where, and wordlessly led the way.
Funny how, even when they couldn’t operate in day-to-day life without friction, when they hunted they were still a well-oiled machine. But then, somehow, it had always been like that, all the way back to their pact over Acathla. She had never really questioned why, and now wasn’t the time to start, but it was a relief, to be together and not at odds.
They followed the faint echoes for what felt like hours, stopping and starting as the footsteps came and went, like a trail of half-eaten breadcrumbs.
“This is a wild goose chase,” Spike muttered as they passed through a large, chamber-like cavern that Buffy could swear they’d already been through twice.
“Wait,” she said, “I’ve been here before.”
“Uh, I’ll say.”
“No, I mean, I’ve been here before. Before today.” She shone her flashlight in a slow arc, taking in details she hadn’t bothered with the first couple times: the depression in the center, the protrusion of rock that looked like an altar. “This is where I saw the First Evil, three years ago. This was its lair.”
Spike shrugged. “Was being the operative word. Whatever was here before cleared out long ago. Look, Slayer, this is a waste of time, there’s nothing down-” he cut himself off at the taunting sound of distant, echoing feet, and heaved a sigh. “Oh, bloody hell.”
“Spike, wait,” Buffy said, one hand on his arm to stop him following. “Do you get the feeling that we’re rats in a maze here?”
He frowned. “You think something’s leading us on?”
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “Maybe. But why?” It wasn’t a trap, or they’d have been attacked long before now.
“Distraction?” Spike suggested.
His eyes widened at the same moment realization plunged Buffy’s stomach through her boots.
“Dawn.”
They ran.
*
There was a demon. There was a demon climbing up the trellis. A demon just beneath her baby’s window. And it was green and spiny and muscled like a pro wrestler but those details barely registered against the slow motion horror of seeing it happen and being too far away to stop it - too far - and then Spike was there, ripping it down and half the siding too, and then Buffy was there as well and its flesh squelching against her fists was the sound of rage and relief. Spike was yelling, cursing at the top of his lungs, you worthless murdering piece of demon shit I’ll fucking kill you I’ll rip you into shreds, each word punctuated with a kick, a punch, but he didn’t need breath and Buffy needed all hers to force her knuckles again and again into stinking demon hide.
But then it was gone, dissolving through her fingers, and she almost growled in fury because she wasn’t done yet, damn it, not nearly.
Spike was standing over her and the gooey remains of the corpse that was puddling beneath her knees, axe buried to the haft in the turf of the back yard where the demon’s head had been. She blinked up at him, breathing hard. Dawn.
“Jump,” she told him, not waiting to watch as she raced in through the kitchen door and up the stairs. In the nursery, Dawn’s window hung off its hinges but Dawn herself lay dead asleep, cradled pale and peaceful in Spike’s black-clad arms. A sob rose out of her throat like a bubble, expanding to encompass the world that stood before her. For a moment, they were all there was, the sound of her heartbeat, his harsh breath, filling her ears. And then it burst and she collapsed into them, gathering her baby into the shield of her body, hands tangling with Spike’s around her fragile, precious form, and not letting go.
They stood leaning against each other, around each other, breathing together until the trembling subsided. Buffy was only distantly aware that her mom was there, and that they spoke, but the memory of the words exchanged was washed away like marks in the sand by her overwhelming focus on Dawn and the badness that had been so narrowly averted.
Eventually, god knew when, her thighs let her know that they were done with her for the night, and clutching Dawn to her, she stumbled down the hall to her bedroom. She hadn’t let go of Spike and doing so now felt impossible.
“Stay,” she said, tugging him to sit beside her.
“Yeah,” he said, and kicked his boots off, and knelt to pull hers off too, before they lay back together on top of the comforter, still muddy from the caves and sticky with demon parts, and wrapped themselves like wolves around their child.
*
Buffy didn’t think she slept, eyes round and hard as quarters as she scanned over Dawn - downy head, pumpkin belly, jelly-bean toes, head again - absorbed in the task of taking in as much of her in one go as she could. Spike lay close enough that the cool puff of his breath across her skin was as regular and soothing as a heartbeat, one bone-white hand spread wide across Dawn’s torso like a second set of ribs. She had twined her feet with his, not for warmth but some undefined animal comfort and the intrinsic need to bulwark Dawn with their bodies. She didn’t think she slept, but when finally she let her head rest down on the pillow the moon was shining full through the window and illuminating Spike’s pale skin like snow.
She shuddered, remembering her unease at the mouth of the cave like a shadow of foresight. Bad image; no more snow for Buffy, not for the next forever or so.
“Spike?”
“Yeah?”
In the half-light the whites of his eyes gleamed but the irises were dark.
“We need to get Willow to put a spell on the house. Something to protect against demons, like with Glory.”
“Can do it first thing in the morning. I’ll stay here with the niblet.”
“Yeah, good. That’s good.” She gazed at him across the pillow, an intense upwelling of gratitude and fellowship pouring through her, hot and so hard it was choking. “I’m counting on you,” she whispered, “to help me protect her.”
In the dark center of his eyes, fire bloomed like the amber flower of an explosion. “’Til the end of the world.”
God, how good it felt, to have someone say that and know it was true. Feel it.
“Spike? Are we… are we good?”
He didn’t even pause, or pretend like he didn’t know what she meant. He just said, “Yeah, Slayer. We’re good.”
Carefully so as not to wake her, Buffy slid her fingers through his hand on Dawn’s chest, and let out a long, long breath.
“Think we’ll laugh about this when we’re old and grey?” he asked a few minutes later, the faintest humor edging his mouth. “Tell her about the time she slept right through an attempt on her life?”
Buffy huffed a soundless laugh at the thought of either of them aging enough to get grey hairs, before she sobered. It wouldn’t be the only time, she realized; this was just the first, and her grief was like the black of drowning, the weight of water on her lungs.
“Hey now,” Spike said, untangling his hand from hers to catch the tear with a swipe of his thumb as it ran down the side of her nose. Damn him and his night vision; of course he could see her perfectly.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “It’ll never stop. She’s just like me, only without the fifteen year grace period. She’ll be hunted all her life for something she didn’t even have a say in. And as for the old part - I’m the slayer. God, Spike, do you even-”
“Course I do, love,” he interrupted gently. “Used to hunt your kind, remember? You might have heard something about it.” His eyes danced when she glared at him. “But I’m on a mission, see. Very important, world-saving kind of gig. Time was, I would’ve just protected you and the little bit with my life because I loved you, but now I’ve gone all warrior of light, with this higher purpose and all, so you can pretty much guarantee - ah, knew I could get a grin.”
Buffy swatted him lightly before swiping at her face. “Not funny.”
“Wasn’t really joking,” he said with a soft smile. “Not about the important parts. Told you already, ‘til the end of the world. You know what means, kitten? Come what may, no matter what, come hell or high water-”
“Okay, okay, I get it.”
“Good.” He turned serious. “She’s gonna have both of us, Slayer, for a very long time. We’ve got an apocalypse to stop, if you recall. So, sorry pet, but you’re stuck with me.”
“For twenty-one years, huh?”
“And I’ll tell you now, there’s nothing we’ll come up against that’s good enough to best us in the meantime.”
It was a nice thought, even if experience had taught her the lie beneath the swaggering words. She’d already died once, and destiny seemed ready to punch her ticket again in a little over five years’ time. But then again Spike had always been the wild card in the deck and he should have died himself (again) but didn’t. She searched his face for even a flicker of uncertainty and, finding none, realized then that it wasn’t that he believed himself invincible, or destined, or chosen, but that he believed in himself, and her too. Her most of all. It was strangely humbling.
“Yeah, okay,” she said softly. “Okay.”
*
Later in that long night, Buffy sat propped against the pillows nursing Dawn, idly watching Spike’s sleeping form stretched out beside her with a guileless, half-awake interest; merely something pleasing to rest her gritty eyes on. The still lines of his body were long and lithe, skin taking on a bluish tinge in the moonlight, hair rumpled and curling at the ends. Take the clothes off and he could have been a marble sculpture in some art museum somewhere, Vampire in Repose.
Hmm, Spike without clothes. Interesting thought.
It caught her attention when he started breathing, because he didn’t usually, in sleep - strange, shallow, stuttering breaths. Was he dreaming? She had never thought to wonder before if vampires dreamed. No, wait, hadn’t he said once he dreamed of her? Not this time, though, not unless Spike was a better actor than she’d ever given him credit for; Buffy was pretty certain he’d never been afraid of her.
“Hey,” she said quietly, prodding his thigh with her toe. “Wake up.”
His chest stilled and his eyes opened. Nothing more dramatic than that. But something about the set of his face sent a chill down her back.
“Oh. Just a dream,” he said, voice thin, and the hollowness of it made it sound almost a question.
She sat for a moment in silence, looking down on the emotions that chased across his face like clouds across the moon, waiting to see if anything else was going to be forthcoming.
“You okay?” she asked eventually, when nothing was.
He rose silently, turning his back on her as he sat on the edge of the bed.
“Sometimes…” he stopped when his voice cracked, and turned his head away so that she could see nothing of his face. “I’m so full of it, Buffy. What I said in the cave, it’s not true. Much as I may wish it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have these dreams. About things I’ve done.” His shoulders drew up. “Nightmares.”
“Oh,” she said. “Weird.”
He laughed darkly, and then was silent.
At her breast, Dawn had slowed down from frantic hunger to slower, drowsy sucking, body gradually becoming slack and heavy. She loved this moment, the way her whole being seemed to melt into Buffy’s arms. Dawn was eating solids now and it would be time to wean her soon, but Buffy knew she would miss this, a realization as unexpected a few months ago as the pity she now felt for the guilty vampire at her side.
“Hey,” she said with tired solemnity. “I’m sorry.”
Turning back he looked at her over his shoulder, but his face was completely in shadow. “No you aren’t. It’s no more than I deserve for my sins, isn’t that right?”
“I meant, that it’s hard.” Sleepily, she stroked a finger across Dawn’s temple to one sweet little sticky-out ear-tip. Not everything he’d done was bad. But, “How does that even work, anyway?”
In the dark, she saw him touch his chest. “The spark,” he said simply. “It’s catching.”
Her mind was slow with exhaustion, but it brought with it a quiet clarity, too - California native that she was, brought up on Smokey Bear slogans and looping apocalyptic footage on the news channels every summer, Buffy understood the power such a thing could wield.
“Be careful,” she said, tongue feeling as heavy as her eyelids. “The redwoods need those fires to get born, but if you get caught in the flames you’re toast.”
There was a moment in which Buffy absolutely did not fall asleep, head jerking precipitously, and then came Spike’s voice, a deep, comforting rumble, “Haven’t got a clue what you’re on about, pet, but trees aren’t born, they germinate.”
“Whatever.”
“You get some sleep now, sun’ll be up soon.”
She felt him lift Dawn and settle her between them once more, pull Buffy’s sweater back into place, and lie back down. She rolled to her side and blindly reached out, heavy hand falling to hook around his left biceps, arm like a safety barrier over the baby.
“Have you thought about feeding?” she murmured. “Since the chip?”
She felt him take a long, slow breath, muscle bunching in his arm. She felt so heavy, paralyzed with it, but held back the encroaching darkness of sleep to wait for the answer. “Yeah,” he said on the exhale. “Know it’s wrong, but - dusted a vamp while he was feeding. The chit was unconscious and bleeding and I… thought about it.”
“But you didn’t.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Made a promise to a lady.”
“That all?”
Another slow inhale, voice coming then in an undertone. “Felt… felt this gnawing sensation from inside. Bit out of practice, but I think it was… Christ, think it was shame, Buffy. Couldn’t have done it even if you hadn’t spelled it out for me.”
She’d warned, back on her porch, she’d warned him it wouldn’t be easy, but her last thought as she conceded defeat against unconsciousness was how greatly he’d transcended her expectations.
*
“Buffy?” Mom’s voice floated up from downstairs. “Honey, you’re going to be late.”
“Not if the floor opens up and swallows me first,” Buffy muttered, staring aghast at herself in the long mirror. She turned pleading eyes to Willow’s reflection, standing at Buffy’s shoulder. “You could do that, right?”
“Hey, remember Cathy? ‘Cause you know that actually happened that one time,” Willow said with false cheer.
Buffy stared dumbly for another few seconds at the toxic green monstrosity of a bridesmaid’s dress before shaking herself and gathering up her things: purse, lip-gloss, stake, diaper bag. No point prolonging the horror.
“Spike?” she yelled on her way past the bathroom, “You ready?”
“I was turned ready, Slayer,” came the groan-worthy response, but she couldn’t help a snort when, a moment later, it was followed by a string of the kind of cute-talk that had become ever more familiar since he’d practically moved into their basement last month. She heard Dawn’s babbling reply, and the sticky snap of diaper fastenings. Who’d have thought… well, any of this? But Spike living in her house being Daddy Daycare so that her mom could go back to work full time and Buffy could get more time for studying was particularly miraculous. Even more so, how much he wanted to do it. And how good he’d turned out to be.
“Meet you downstairs,” she told him, just as thunder rolled.
“There you are.” Mom was waiting in the foyer. “I told you it looked like rain - do you have an umbrella?” she asked, peeking out through the panes in the front door.
“Mom, we have about a zillion in the basement.” Given the climate, on the few occasions it actually rained, they somehow always ended up getting caught in it and having to buy new umbrellas. It had become a thing, over the years, to try and find the brightest or most obnoxiously patterned one possible. At this thought, Buffy brightened. “There’s probably even something that’d match my ensemble. Do we still have that one that looks like Slimer from Ghostbusters?”
Mom gave her a look. “Because the most important thing when wearing Kermit-green is to have matching accessories.”
“Damn straight,” Buffy said with a firm nod, lifting her hem to reveal the pumps she’d had dyed specially.
Joyce put her hand to her chest in mock dismay. “Oh god, what did I bring into the world?” The sound of a car pulling up to the driveway prevented a witty comeback. “Well, that’s my ride. I guess I’ll see you after the ceremony.”
“Say hi to Brian for me,” she said, waving from the open door. Another roll of thunder tumbled across the grey sky as Joyce walked to the car, and just made it safely inside before the rain came down, a swift sheet of fat, splashy drops that had soaked the sidewalk in moments.
Buffy sighed, looking up at the waterfall coming over the guttering. “Let’s just hope this isn’t an omen.”
“Uh, remember where we are, pet,” Spike’s voice came from behind her, closer than she’d have expected. “Hellmouth ringing any bells? Probably best not to say things like that.”
“Oh, right.”
When she turned, Spike took one look at her expression and broke into a broad smile, the nice one that made his eyes crinkle. “Look at that lip,” he said, reaching up to poke her lower lip with his forefinger before she swatted it away. She ignored the little twinge in her chest at the moment she knew he was referring to - and how weird was it to have that kind of friendly short-hand with Spike nowadays? - when she had been blindingly happy and planning her own wedding.
“If you ruin my makeup I’ll kick you up and down the reception hall.”
“You could try,” he said, smile sharpening to an evil smirk, the effect of which was somewhat hampered by the baby in frilly green clutched at his side.
“Hi cutie-pie,” she said, holding out her arms for Dawn. “How come you still look adorable in radioactive satin, huh? No fair.”
Dawn flapped her arms excitedly but was otherwise unforthcoming.
“Oh I don’t know, your outfit has its charms,” Spike said, letting his eyes drop to her hips where the mermaid-style cut clung to her figure. She shoved his shoulder good-naturedly - or what qualified as such between them, so that he only stumbled back and didn’t fall flat on his ass - but he just smiled again, touching her lightly on the cheek with his left hand, Dawn’s cheek with his right. “Both my girls look beautiful.”
She only realized she’d been smiling too when she felt it become rigid with awkwardness. With Spike living with them now, she’d been extra careful to keep things in check between them. The night the First had sent the demon after Dawn had made a lot of things clear to her: that she and Spike were a team; that she couldn’t risk messing things up between them for Dawn’s sake. Her baby had to come first, and Dawnie needed them both, and on good terms with each other. Buffy was fine with that, now. Completely, utterly… fine…
“Spike,” she said, the word coming out like an apology as his touch lingered, the familiar adoring light in his eyes. “I-”
He blinked and shook his head slightly as if to clear it. “Right,” he said, the slightest hint of self-consciousness, “time to go. Where’s Red?”
“Here,” Willow said, coming from the kitchen holding out a selection of umbrellas in tartan, polka dot and paisley. “Take your pick! I’ve put a little charm on them to keep us extra dry.”
“Something wrong with plain black?” Spike groused.
“Nope,” Willow said with a pleased grin and flicked a bolt of light at the paisley umbrella, turning it plain black. Spike took it wordlessly and Willow pouted, complaining about his lack of effusive gratitude as they all made for the car together.
*
“I can’t believe it’s raining on my wedding day,” Anya said, wringing her hands as she stood on her little plinth in her lingerie and eye-mask while the others tried to figure out how to get her frothy white dress over her head. “I mean, this is Southern California. It only rains about once a decade and it had to be today?”
“Drip, drip, drop little - March - showers,” Tara said with a small, wry smile at Willow. Buffy was relieved to see it, after their latest quarrel. It hadn’t been anything uber serious, as far as Willow had told her, but whenever any of her friends fought it gave her a tummy full of knots.
“Well, don’t look at me,” Willow said. “I’ve never had any success messing with the elements.”
Anya huffed but Tara’s smile widened.
“Hey, on the plus side, Spike’s way less likely to burst into flames on a day like this,” Buffy pointed out.
“Well, I guess that’s true,” Anya said, as though she really didn’t rate that as important, but was trying not to show it. “Vampire dust is so hard to get out of the carpets and I would very much like to get the security deposit back.”
They finally managed to get her into her dress without pulling out her hair or getting anyone’s lipstick on the train, and Buffy watched with a feeling of contentment as Willow and Tara stood closer than was really necessary to fasten the buttons on the bodice.
“So as best man, shouldn’t you be…?” she asked slyly.
Willow glanced up, looking conflicted, and Buffy brushed it aside with a wave of her hand.
“You guys have got it covered here, I’ll go.”
“Yes, thank you, Buffy,” Anya said, “Xander will probably need your Slayer strength to get him into his cummerbund if his excessive food consumption of the last week is anything to go by.”
“Ah, true love,” Buffy murmured in amusement as she closed the door to Anya’s hotel room behind her. Xander’s room was on the other side of the hall where the ceremony would be taking place. As she crossed it, Buffy took note of how it was filling up already, demons and humans co-existing peacefully amid the canapés - for now.
At the back of the hall was Spike, Dawn in the stroller at his side. He stood alone, hands in his pockets and one foot propped against the wall behind him, wearing the vague sort of scowl that he usually used to repel the peons from trying to make small talk. To her, he just looked uncomfortable. She didn’t know why, though, and with Spike it really could be anything, but it wasn’t in her nature to pass up an opportunity like that.
“Hey Spikey,” she said loudly as she passed, flashing him a brilliant smile, “could you give her a snack while we’re waiting to get started?”
She didn’t stop to see his reaction, confident that the group of nearby women who’d been side-eyeing him wouldn’t be able to resist crowding around the spectacle of the big bad punk guy, stubbornly dressed in black jeans and biker boots, passing the cute little ten month-old girl cheerios from a Tupperware container, and the way he couldn’t - just couldn’t - keep up the attitude when Dawn was looking at him.
Something about it bothered her, though, the way he was stood back there by himself. As though he was still unsure of his place within their little Scooby circle. It only occurred to her as she reached Xander’s door that he was the only one of them aside from Giles without a role to play in the day’s festivities, and Giles hadn’t been able to come. Of course, Mom and Brian were around somewhere, so it wasn’t like he was alone. But the feeling of unease wouldn’t quite leave her as she pushed the door open, ready to do battle with the groom’s waistline.
*
An inordinate amount of time later, dress ripped to the thigh, cheek throbbing and hair hastily repaired, Buffy managed to maneuver herself around the slew of other women vying for his attention and nab a still-slightly-damp Xander for a dance. She felt his wedding band against her fingers, hard metal warmed by skin, and the last little bit of tension in her body unwound. They were good, no one was dead or permanently injured, and most importantly:
“You went through with it.”
She said it softly, with wonder, smiling up at him with eyes that felt more than a little glittery.
“I know! I’m still kind of amazed myself.” Xander puffed out a breath, cheeks filling like balloons, like a cartoon character that’d made a narrow escape. “Couple days ago, I told Anya how our wedding and our marriage were two different things and I gotta tell ya, I’m so glad I got the one out of the way because I can’t wait to start enjoying the other.”
Buffy sniffed and smiled, and moved in closer to rest her head on his chest.
“You did good, Xand.”
“Yeah. Overcoming crippling fear is actually pretty awesome. You know what’s weird, though?” He paused and Buffy pulled back slightly to look up at him again. “Even before Grampa Xander went all demony, I knew something was up, because in all this time? Spike’s never mentioned Anya and me not being together. And come on, it’s not like either of us is Miss Manners, we’ll never be buddies - he so would’ve said something in the heat of the moment, you know? If he thought it would piss me off.”
Buffy’s eyes fell to his shoulder, over which she could just make out the vamp in question, edging around the crowd with Dawnie in tow, and remembered the conversation they’d had at Christmas. They’d decided together not to say anything; the future was already different now, especially now. It was impossible to know what might have happened, but she had a sense, that wind-whipped, slightly giddy sense, of a crisis just barely averted. That, and a distant feeling of annoyance that Xander would underestimate him so badly. But then, there were sides to Spike that only she really saw - living with him, she’d come to realize that lately.
“Got a new-found Spike appreciation, huh?” she teased.
“Well, you know, he is strong and mysterious and sort of compact, but well-muscled. But I’m a married man now - my vampire-diddling days are over. Oh, wait, I got us confused for a moment there.” And he gave her a pointed look.
His tone was affable enough, though, and Buffy responded in kind, thwapping him playfully.
“Geez, how many times do I have to say it? Magical baby, Xander. Ma-gi-cal. As in, she who was not acquired through conventional means? As in, no diddling!” Buffy knew, though, even as she said it, that the requisite level of outrage just wasn’t there anymore, and even Xander could see it. There was a pause that went on a moment too long.
“So you guys…?” he asked lightly, but when she looked up she could see him wincing just beneath the surface, and blushed deeply in embarrassment. Spilling to Willow was one thing. Talking about guys - or, well, love interests - was a long and time-honored tradition between them, hailing back to high school. Spilling to Xander was much less natural and suddenly somehow beyond uncomfortable.
“It’s complicated,” she said, attention caught once more by Spike, now over by the buffet table, starting to look harassed by a middle-aged couple cooing over Dawnie.
“Look,” Xander said, the hand on her waist digging in a little as he tensed. “Can I say something? I know you probably don’t want to hear it, and it’s probably not my business, but I’m gonna say it anyway. So this’ll go easier if you just listen.”
“O-okay,” Buffy said slowly.
“Right. You know the only reason I flipped out over the whole ‘me Spike Vader, you Dawn Skywalker’ thing was because I was worried about, uh, this.” He jerked his head in the general direction of the buffet.
“Finger sandwiches? Ooh, is the filling demonic? I thought that horseradish was kinda lively.”
“No,” he said patiently. “This, this thing between you and Spike, whatever it is. And before you say anything, just, just hear me out, okay? It’s not just that he’s another vampire in your life, and now even more impossible to get rid of than before - it isn’t,” he protested at her raised eyebrows. “Although, okay, that didn’t exactly play a small part. Buffy, I know what it means to you for Dawn to have a father. But, look, I’m coming from the opposite direction when it comes to family harmony.” He waltzed her around so she could get a good look at where his mother and father were both getting rapidly drunk at opposite ends of the bar. “They stayed together for me. Do you know what that felt like, growing up, knowing all of - that - was on my head?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, stunned. She’d never thought about it like that before. When her mom and dad had fought it had always been bad, but they’d mostly kept it away from her, never badmouthed each other in her presence, and were ultimately happier apart. Maybe a little too happy in her dad’s case. And sure, the slaying hadn’t helped - she still had her insecurities about what role that had played in the whole slow-motion pile up that was the months leading up to the divorce. But, lucky nineteen aside, at least her parents had tried to never let her feel like it was her fault. The thought of little Xander alone in a sea of animosity made her want to hug him tighter, so she did.
“Urgh, Buff?” He tapped her urgently on the shoulder, making a gurgling sound. “Little air?”
“Oh, right.” She eased up. “Sorry.”
“They hate each other,” he continued, shaking his head almost in awe as his eyes fell on his parents again. “I just… I worry, you know? Because Dawn deserves better.”
Buffy looked up at that, raising her head with a frown. “I don’t hate Spike.”
Xander sighed, expression resigned. “Yeah, getting that lately.” He spun her again, twirling her under his arm in an ostentatious flourish. “But is not-hating him enough?” He dipped her back as the song finished and their eyes met, weighty with uncharacteristic gravity. Then she was upright and being cut out by an overzealous Anya dragging him over toward the cake.
A crowd had instantly formed, leaving Buffy in its lee for a moment as she gathered herself back in. Was not-hate enough? Probably not, but what she felt for Spike had ridden right past the sign to not-hatesville a long time ago. She caught sight of him lifting Dawn up to his shoulders so she could see what was going on, little hands grabbing tufts of bleach blond hair, loosing Spike’s ridiculous curls from the gel. She could see him glancing up with a look of chagrin, but leaving her to it, and Buffy felt her heart swell.
She watched them for a couple of minutes until the crowd had more or less formed a line, then slunk up beside them and slid her hands around his waist, going up on her tiptoes to hook her chin over his shoulder.
“Hey,” she said, before play-biting Dawn’s gorgeously chubby thigh.
“Hey,” Spike replied. She made to step back but he caught her, letting go of Dawn with one hand to slide it over the place where her hands met. The woman in line in front of them turned around and smiled indulgently at them.
“This must be your wife,” she said to Spike. “Hi, I’m Loreen, Xander’s cousin. William was just telling me all about Dawnie’s mama.”
She felt Spike stiffen, his hand tightening subtly on hers in a way that made her wonder if he even realized he was doing it. Xander’s warning was still clear in her mind, and yet, somehow she didn’t feel put off. Almost the opposite, filled with fondness for her partner in crime. She could make a fuss, point out the woman’s mistake, but really? No point. Loreen would just get embarrassed and Spike’d get all sore, and then the nice moment would be gone.
So she just said, “Hi, I’m Buffy,” smiled nicely, then disentangled herself from Spike enough to nudge him away. “Come on, I wanna dance.”
“You don’t want cake? It’s chocolate. Was gonna get some for you and the niblet.”
She had to look down to hide her smile and the warm flush of pleasure in her cheeks. God, weddings made her sentimental. “She’s only got four teeth. I think we can wait another day before we start ruining them.”
They danced together with Dawnie for a little bit, moving around each other easily and having fun throwing her up and twirling her around between them while the dance floor was still fairly empty. But as more people drifted away from their desserts back to dancing, Buffy found herself necessarily moving closer to Spike, hands brushing, or arms, or eyes.
“Wait here,” she said, refusing to think too hard about it, and took Dawn over to her mom at their table before coming back alone.
Hemmed in close, under the mood lighting and mirror ball, she touched Spike’s arms just above the elbow before letting her fingers trail down his sleeves to his hands, and watched his fingers twitch at the touch of skin on skin.
He took her hands and leaned close, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “May I have this dance?” The cheesy words were somehow seductive in his voice, the feel of his breath prompting a full-body shiver. When he drew back just a little, his eyes were intent and she was drawn helplessly into him in a way she was now absolutely certain was intentional.
“This how you used to catch your prey?” she asked, moving slowly against him. Her body was languid, hot, the skin of her face tingling and tight. He didn’t answer, and that was probably for the best; she didn’t know why she sometimes felt compelled to prod at the delicate scab that divided their present from his past, but perhaps the reassurance that he didn’t want to brag about it was explanation enough. She didn’t examine the twinge of jealousy, or the nagging thought that without his sire’s skill in thrall, the prey had to be at least a little bit willing.
She met his eyes and turned slowly, arms above her head, swaying to the music. His hands on her hips should have been a surprise - the feel of his body pressed against her back, his lips an inch from her neck, should have been unwelcome. Instead she felt herself moving with him as though they had done it a thousand times before. All we’ve ever done is dance, she remembered him saying, that night she thought she would lose the pregnancy from a stake to her side. The night she’d confessed hysterically to Riley and he’d run. The night Spike had come to her back porch with a shotgun, and instead of trying to shoot her, held her hair back as the nausea came and sat beside her when the tears did.
She was dimly aware that they were moving to the edge of the dance floor. She had turned again and placed her hands on his chest, fingering the lapels of his leather jacket. It felt new, and stiffer than his old duster, which still hung in Dawn’s room and with which she would never admit to being so familiar. The way he was looking at her was making her blood boil, like she used to feel when they fought as enemies, when she hated him, except now it really was very definitely not-hate she was feeling, though something of the aggression remained. A distant part of her mind marveled at how quickly things had heated up between them, but then they were out in the corridor and the only thing Buffy wanted to think about was the feel of Spike’s mouth as she shoved him into the wall and buried herself in kissing him.
Oh god, why - why had she been denying herself this? They were pressed together the whole length of their bodies, her arms around his neck, hands buried in his hair, and the feel of his cool, firm chest against her breasts, his tongue in the furnace of her mouth, was incredible. His hands cupped her face with a tenderness belied by the way he attacked her mouth, and she realized they were still dancing, that he’d been right, and why he hadn’t been able to use that damn shotgun like he’d wanted that night because that, too, was all part of the same thing.
She could feel his excitement pressing into her, made bulky and rough by the denim of his fly, and she found herself rubbing against him like a cat in heat, alien sounds being wrung from her throat.
“Christ, Buffy,” he groaned as her hands found his ass and pulled him tighter against her, his head falling back against the wall. Presented with his Adam’s apple she licked a stripe along his neck before grazing corded muscle with her teeth. She must have found a sensitive spot because his knees seemed to buckle and they were stumbling to the side for a moment before righting themselves. It put distance between them, her hands on the wall and his shoulder, his on her upper arms. She took in his expression and smiled the slow grin of a predator, but when she tried to swoop back in on him, he restrained her, and held her at arm’s length.
He was panting, wrecked, staring into her eyes with helpless passion and an earnestness that bordered on desperation, and his voice was hoarse when he said, “Tread softly, Slayer.”
It took a moment, through her addled and overheated brain, to process what he was saying, focused more on the tantalizing movement of his lips than the words they uttered. But when she did, it came to her in Professor Lillian’s voice, and sweeping insight gentled the straining of her body. She paused, and considered him.
“He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven? Thought you were more a leather and denim kind of guy.”
The look he gave her then flashed fire, a roil of furious heat like opening the oven door. Instinctively she made to step back, but he kept her from that too. “What do you want from me, Buffy? Need to hear you say it because god knows every time I think I’ve got it figured out you go changing the rules on me and a bloke can only-”
He cut himself off, jaw clenching, nostrils flaring, a trapped animal.
No. No. Not an animal. Just trapped.
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Looking into his darkened eyes she thought of the way his innuendos had become kind of safe recently, and his isolation at the back of the hall earlier. The look on his face when she’d unwittingly re-invited him into the house, and the way he always managed to restrain himself when… with the kissing stuff and…
“You’re afraid,” she said, astounded. “Of me.”
The muscle in his jaw ticked and he looked away over her shoulder. “Buffy you know I want you, more than anything, but you, you’re confused. I can feel you want me - can smell it on you - so I could push, right, follow the instincts that are screaming at me to throw you down and fuck you through the floor, but then what? I get it wrong, bollocks things up somehow, and you decide to change the locks on me again? Bar me from-” he faltered as though winded. “I can’t risk it, I won’t, so ball’s in your court, love, just like it’s always been. And I’ll keep hanging on by a thread. But please, for chrissakes Buffy, just tell me.”
It staggered her, the power she held over him. Not just his love for her, now, but for Dawn, which was pure and unselfish in a way that shouldn’t have been possible and yet was beyond doubt. How deep his fear must go, to hold him back from leaping headlong into whatever it was she kept offering him. She could see in his face both the aching hope that they’d continue what they’d been doing, and the crushing dread of what she could take from him if he didn’t get it right.
“Buffy,” he said again, hands like bands of steel around her arms. “Do you even know why you want me? Is it even for me?”
He’s the mystical equivalent of a sperm donor, Buffy.
They hate each other. Dawn deserves better.
People expect a child’s parents to be attracted to one another, don’t they?
She closed her eyes, trembling now and unequal to meeting that look for another second. Something small and young and smarting curled up inside her in a tight, stunned ball.
“I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” she said. “I don’t want that.”
Feeling like a coward, she opened her eyes and forced steel back into her spine. “Spike, you’re good now, and you’re Dawnie’s father. No matter how I - I feel about you, I will never keep you from her. Never.” She scanned his face intently. “I’m so sorry you didn’t know that.”
They stared at each other and Buffy realized her hands were clenched in his jacket, hard enough to bruise the leather. For a moment she didn’t know who was pushing and who pulling, locked this small but substantial distance from each other.
“Slayer, Vampire,” he croaked, by way of explanation.
Forcing her hands to loosen their grip, she did her best to smooth the wrinkles.
“Just stick to the light side of the force and we’re all good here.”
He nodded, utterly serious, chest rising and falling in short, steadying breaths and eyes brimful of something so bright it was hard to look at; impossible to look away.
“Didn’t answer my question, pet, don’t think I didn’t notice that. But I like what you said a whole lot better so I won’t push you on it. For now.”
He looked kind of shell shocked, which was the only reason Buffy restrained herself from rolling her eyes, being fairly certain that the whole point of what she had just said was that he could push back, and argue, and disagree, and question, and boy howdy was she gonna regret that when he caught up to it.
His focus lay elsewhere at that moment, however. Slowly, haltingly, and watching her eyes the entire time, Spike softened his hands and pulled her into him until they were cheek to cheek, chest to chest, hip to hip. She waited, forcing herself to relax, heart thudding in her chest. He would hear it, but how he interpreted it was up to him. She wanted to see what he would do, now that she’d unshackled him.
A kiss on her cheek was followed by another and another, firm, slow, sweet kisses that trailed to the corner of her mouth. Cupping her jaw he tilted her face up until their eyes met for a moment thick and slow as molasses, before lowering his mouth to hers. This kiss was deep and unhurried, sweet in an entirely different way, and before Buffy knew it, it was her being pressed into the wall and groaning weak-kneed into Spike’s mouth as his hands began a slow and very circuitous exploration of her body. Wow was she kinda glad for that thigh-high tear in her dress now, because-
“Willow, sweetie? Did you find th- oh. There they are.”
Buffy almost jumped out of her skin, shoving Spike off her convulsively before she realized who it was. Tara had turned a deep shade of red, looking determinedly at the wall but also failing to hide the quirking of her mouth as she said, “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“No. No,” Buffy said too brightly, surreptitiously trying to straighten her dress. “We were just… uh. Is everything all right?”
“Your mom asked us to look for you. She’s getting ready to leave. With Brian? I think she wants to say goodbye and, you know, offload Dawnie.”
“Right,” Buffy said. “Of course.” She didn’t move.
“I’ll just…” Tara motioned over her shoulder. “I’ll go let them know you’re coming.”
For a moment, Buffy just stared after her, and then she sighed and turned to Spike. “We should…”
“Yeah.”
He was giving her a funny look, and she frowned at him. “What?”
“Just waiting for the back-pedaling and apologies. Running away, virtue fluttering? Isn’t that usually what happens about now?”
This time she did roll her eyes. “Have you seen these heels? This is not a run-friendly ensemble.”
“Seen you in worse.” He watched her from beneath his brow. “Fought you in worse. Point of fact, got a very fond memory of a snappy little outfit you wore this one time-”
She thwapped him. “You’re a pig, Spike. And I was trying to be all metaphory. ‘Cause I know you know I strangled a seven foot demon in this outfit earlier - you watched me. The heels are so not the point.”
He ducked his head. “Ah, well then.”
He took her hand, not in a helping-you-up kind of way, or even a pulling-you-along kind of way, but fingers woven together, in a boyfriend-girlfriend kind of way. His face was a challenge, but underneath there was something boyish and so unexpectedly insecure that Buffy’s immediate instinct was to squeeze his hand in reassurance.
“We’re not done here,” she told him, and didn’t let go until they had pushed back through the doors to the reception party.
Chapter Index | Part 2
Pairing(s): Buffy/Spike, (Anya/Xander, Willow/Tara)
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~13,500 this chapter (~41,500 total)
Timeline: AU S5, S6, S7 and post-series
Warnings: character death, violence and gore
Summary: As a child, I used to dream of a man in black and white, spinning in the desert like a dervish, sword flashing in the moonlight as he danced with death.(A sequel/companion to angearia's Fin Amour).
Notes: Welp. Sorry it took so long, folks. What can I say? There's been sickness, procrastination, a failed IVF cycle and getting side-tracked by other people's fanfiction... I lay my neck on the cutting block of your patience! Huge thanks to angearia and rahirah, for semicolons, capslocking, malapropism fail (prevention of), awesome character insight and all round beta kickassness :) Sadly my goddess yavannie82 has had to bow out due to participating in this year's NaNoWriMo, but I absolutely have to thank her too because even though she hasn't read it, this chap wouldn't have been half as good without the suggestions and discussion she gave me along the way. Concrit is welcome. Also available on Elysian Fields.
8
Between Reason and Desire
“Hey, um… can I talk to you about something?”
“Of course, Buffy.”
They were sitting on Buffy’s bed, she, Willow and Tara, luxuriating in the New Year’s salesy goodness and dressing Dawnie up in a series of cute new dress-and-shoes combos like a little doll. The bed was a sea of tissue paper and clothes, Dawn bouncing around on her butt and shrieking in delight at the way it crinkled up in her fists. Right now she had on a white satin dress with little pink bows around the waistband, pretty but completely impractical for the world-class drooler Dawn was these days. Buffy had bought it immediately, and then proceeded to wipe Dawn down from sticky head to grubby toes before letting her within three feet of it. It was really tempting to ask Willow to do some kind of stay-clean spell, because she just looked so darn cute, with her little matching headband and sparkly silver shoes. Maybe this was why women wanted babies? The extra retail opportunities were definitely a bonus. Plus, totally guilt free. Kids needed clothes, right?
Tara looked between Buffy and Willow. “Shall I… I can take Dawnie downstairs if you guys want to…”
“No, Tara, stay,” Buffy said. I might need you, she didn’t add. “Right. Okay. Um. You know how we all make choices? And sometimes they’re good, and… sometimes they’re… less good.”
Willow frowned slightly but nodded. “Uh huh…”
“Well, lately, I, uh… see, there’s this thing with Spike, where I, I keep, um… kissing him.”
She glanced up from under her brow to see their reactions. There was surprise, a little concern. Nothing outrageous yet. Okay, keep breathing.
“Buffy… what?” Willow’s tone was kind of prim and chastising. She seemed to realize it herself a moment later. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong. I don’t wanna be all judgmental girl.” She glanced at Tara, who gave her a soft look in return, and Buffy abruptly remembered her own reaction to Willow’s coming out. Yeah, maybe she deserved some freakage. “But I guess this falls under the less good choices category? That’s why you’re telling us, right?”
“I don’t know, Will,” she said, trying to stop herself from hunching up into the little ball she wanted to be. “He’s… it was weird. He’s been weird, ever since the last time. And the first time he didn’t even mention it. I don’t- no, sweetheart, don’t eat it.”
The following pause was long and awkward, and Buffy focused on the lump of soggy tissue wrap she’d pried out of Dawn’s fingers like an eagle zoning in on a mouse.
“Do you love him?” That was Tara.
“No!” Head snapping up she looked between them. “God, no. It was just… spur of the moment, I guess. But I thought… I didn’t think he’d get all bad moody about it.”
Not that Spike’s behavior had been especially bad, given what he was capable of. But he had become stiff with her, short and distant. Maybe not noticeably, to the others, but she felt it. The smiles and jokes and little digs were gone, and so was her sense of ease. And she missed it. Badly.
“Do you have any feelings for him? Because Buffy, if you don’t, I gotta say I kinda sympathize with the guy.”
Buffy stared at Willow wide-eyed. “What?”
“He’s been in love with you for a long time,” Tara said, voice gentle but something pointed in her expression that made Buffy feel mean and small.
“I remember what that’s like,” Willow added. “Knowing it’ll never come back to you, but doing it anyway because you just can’t stop yourself.”
“Oh, baby,” Tara murmured, pressing a tender kiss into her temple. “All that’s in the past.”
They smiled at each other with a quiet, joyous intimacy that made Buffy flush.
“It’s not that I don’t feel anything,” she said, eyes downcast. “It’s just… god, it’s so complicated. Because on the one hand, hey, it’s Spike the vampire, and wanting him, that’s icky and wrong. But on the other hand, he’s the guy who’s Dawnie’s daddy, and then it’s actually kinda normal, right? People expect a child’s parents to be attracted to one another, don’t they?” She could hear the desperation in her own voice.
It was just so damn unsettling, the way she was feeling so on all of a sudden; the fact that it was Spike making her feel that way. The things he made her dream about. God, the things she thought about while still awake. Being with someone like that was supposed to be beautiful, precious. With Riley she’d learnt it could be fun, too, but she’d never thought of herself as the kind of girl who got distracted by an off-hand mention of the restraints Spike said he kept in his weapons’ chest back at the crypt. Like thoroughly, gear-grindingly, stutteringly distracted and in desperate need of an emergency cold shower. There had to be something wrong with her, she knew it, but she couldn’t make it stop, the desire to touch him, reach out to him, rub up against him and… yeah. And the fact that Willow and Tara weren’t blessing her to go forth and get the dirty out of her system was… was… either really infuriating or the biggest relief she’d ever felt. Maybe she’d even figure out which it was by the time they were done talking.
Willow was looking at her nonplussed. “He’s the mystical equivalent of a sperm donor, Buffy.”
Well, that was an effective dampener. She screwed up her nose at the imagery. “Ew.”
Tara placed her hand pointedly over Willow’s. “It’s not unnatural to be curious about… that,” she said. “And he is. Attractive.”
“Hey!” Willow said.
“Just an objective assessment, sweetie,” Tara said, a small, sly smile turning up one corner of her mouth.
“But?” Buffy asked, bracing herself.
Tara looked down at the baby on the bed between them, Dawn chewing on her fist and watching the three of them now as if they were the most interesting tennis match in the history of ever.
“But Dawn,” she said simply.
Buffy wanted to say it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that she’d been saddled with this mystical crap she’d never asked for, not fair that she wasn’t even legally allowed to drink and yet had to be responsible - entirely responsible - for a whole other tiny person. Not fair that she couldn’t be young and stupid, and make reckless, impulsive decisions because they felt good at the time.
And then Dawn took that moment to give Buffy a dazzling smile that hit her in the heart like a flaming arrow.
“Yeah,” she said, struck with love. “Dawn.”
*
“That’s it?”
They stood side by side staring at the barely-there hole in the ground at the back of the empty Christmas tree lot. Spike looked thoroughly unimpressed and Buffy just shrugged. “You know Sunnydale. There’s a whole network of caves down there.” She shuddered in abrupt remembrance of three Christmases ago - was it really so few? - and glanced involuntarily up at the sky. The night was clear and as chill as it ever got in California, stars twinkling and breath fogging. No snow. She couldn’t help sliding her eyes then to Spike, an undefined anxiousness prickling her skin.
“You’re not-” she started, stopped, sucked in the corner of her mouth. “You don’t-”
Spike raised his scarred eyebrow at her impatiently, clearly annoyed, and she felt oddly like recoiling. It had been like that since Christmas. Since they had kissed again under the mistletoe like a big holiday cliché.
Since her talk with Willow and Tara, Buffy had tried to figure out how to smooth things over with him, maybe even - god - apologize. But she sucked at that stuff, holding onto a distant but cherished hope that she could just ignore it and everything would eventually go back to normal. Well things hadn’t, and relations between them still felt so prickly, but she didn’t have a clue how to fix it.
“I was going to ask you if you ever felt guilty for the things you’ve done,” she snapped, “because the First uses stuff like that against you, but you know what? Never mind.”
The worst part was, despite her best intentions, his mood would inevitably rub off on her and she couldn’t help bristling in response, like a pair of mongeese or something. She was so sick of it. One day maybe she’d even be sick enough to bite her tongue. Right, uh huh, and pigs would fly and hell would freeze over, and Buffy would live in the burbs and bake cookies and get a job in daylight hours like a real girl.
Spike’s expression was hard and incredulous. “Hello, vampire here. Didn’t think I was capable of all those squidgy feelings you humans prize.”
“Angel was a vampire too,” she said, voice low. The memory of standing on top of that hill in the haze of impending sunrise, begging - begging him - not to let himself dust, would never, ever leave her.
“Well I’m not sodding Peaches, okay?” Spike ground out. He sniffed and turned away, a tendon ticking in his jaw, and she thought he muttered, “Made that abundantly clear,” but it was hard to tell with the cigarette he had shoved between his lips.
“Excuse me for caring,” she muttered with an eye roll, crouching down to shine her flashlight into the cave opening. Not too far down, it was an easy jump. She tucked it into her jacket pocket and slid her legs down into the hole. “Coming? Or are you going to skulk around up here all night?”
A couple of seconds later he landed behind her lightly and more gracefully than she had, which only served to get on her nerves.
“Course I don’t feel guilty,” he continued, as though the conversation hadn’t been emphatically over. “Why would I? Just following my nature, and if I enjoyed myself a bit along the way, well, I wager you’d know a thing or two about that, Slayer.”
She shone the flashlight square in his eyes and was disappointed when he didn’t even flinch, smirking at her instead in a way that was more chilling than that other thing that normally happened, low in her belly. He didn’t seem even remotely human in that moment, and it came to her jarringly that, in fact, he wasn’t. And now he wasn’t pretending anymore.
No. No, that wasn’t right. She knew him better than that. He was just fishing for a reaction, as usual. Only, why that reaction was disgust, she had no idea.
Ugh, stupid vampire.
“Shut up, Spike,” she said, but it lacked bite, maybe because right then he had enough for both of them. Something flashed across his face, not hurt or anger, but something, and it chased the unearthly edges from his expression. She could worry about what exactly it had been later because just then a faint echo reached them, and it sounded like footsteps.
“Take point,” she told him tersely, intending to make use of his superior hearing, and unsheathed the sword she wore strapped across her back. Spike nodded, producing an axe from god knew where, and wordlessly led the way.
Funny how, even when they couldn’t operate in day-to-day life without friction, when they hunted they were still a well-oiled machine. But then, somehow, it had always been like that, all the way back to their pact over Acathla. She had never really questioned why, and now wasn’t the time to start, but it was a relief, to be together and not at odds.
They followed the faint echoes for what felt like hours, stopping and starting as the footsteps came and went, like a trail of half-eaten breadcrumbs.
“This is a wild goose chase,” Spike muttered as they passed through a large, chamber-like cavern that Buffy could swear they’d already been through twice.
“Wait,” she said, “I’ve been here before.”
“Uh, I’ll say.”
“No, I mean, I’ve been here before. Before today.” She shone her flashlight in a slow arc, taking in details she hadn’t bothered with the first couple times: the depression in the center, the protrusion of rock that looked like an altar. “This is where I saw the First Evil, three years ago. This was its lair.”
Spike shrugged. “Was being the operative word. Whatever was here before cleared out long ago. Look, Slayer, this is a waste of time, there’s nothing down-” he cut himself off at the taunting sound of distant, echoing feet, and heaved a sigh. “Oh, bloody hell.”
“Spike, wait,” Buffy said, one hand on his arm to stop him following. “Do you get the feeling that we’re rats in a maze here?”
He frowned. “You think something’s leading us on?”
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “Maybe. But why?” It wasn’t a trap, or they’d have been attacked long before now.
“Distraction?” Spike suggested.
His eyes widened at the same moment realization plunged Buffy’s stomach through her boots.
“Dawn.”
They ran.
*
There was a demon. There was a demon climbing up the trellis. A demon just beneath her baby’s window. And it was green and spiny and muscled like a pro wrestler but those details barely registered against the slow motion horror of seeing it happen and being too far away to stop it - too far - and then Spike was there, ripping it down and half the siding too, and then Buffy was there as well and its flesh squelching against her fists was the sound of rage and relief. Spike was yelling, cursing at the top of his lungs, you worthless murdering piece of demon shit I’ll fucking kill you I’ll rip you into shreds, each word punctuated with a kick, a punch, but he didn’t need breath and Buffy needed all hers to force her knuckles again and again into stinking demon hide.
But then it was gone, dissolving through her fingers, and she almost growled in fury because she wasn’t done yet, damn it, not nearly.
Spike was standing over her and the gooey remains of the corpse that was puddling beneath her knees, axe buried to the haft in the turf of the back yard where the demon’s head had been. She blinked up at him, breathing hard. Dawn.
“Jump,” she told him, not waiting to watch as she raced in through the kitchen door and up the stairs. In the nursery, Dawn’s window hung off its hinges but Dawn herself lay dead asleep, cradled pale and peaceful in Spike’s black-clad arms. A sob rose out of her throat like a bubble, expanding to encompass the world that stood before her. For a moment, they were all there was, the sound of her heartbeat, his harsh breath, filling her ears. And then it burst and she collapsed into them, gathering her baby into the shield of her body, hands tangling with Spike’s around her fragile, precious form, and not letting go.
They stood leaning against each other, around each other, breathing together until the trembling subsided. Buffy was only distantly aware that her mom was there, and that they spoke, but the memory of the words exchanged was washed away like marks in the sand by her overwhelming focus on Dawn and the badness that had been so narrowly averted.
Eventually, god knew when, her thighs let her know that they were done with her for the night, and clutching Dawn to her, she stumbled down the hall to her bedroom. She hadn’t let go of Spike and doing so now felt impossible.
“Stay,” she said, tugging him to sit beside her.
“Yeah,” he said, and kicked his boots off, and knelt to pull hers off too, before they lay back together on top of the comforter, still muddy from the caves and sticky with demon parts, and wrapped themselves like wolves around their child.
*
Buffy didn’t think she slept, eyes round and hard as quarters as she scanned over Dawn - downy head, pumpkin belly, jelly-bean toes, head again - absorbed in the task of taking in as much of her in one go as she could. Spike lay close enough that the cool puff of his breath across her skin was as regular and soothing as a heartbeat, one bone-white hand spread wide across Dawn’s torso like a second set of ribs. She had twined her feet with his, not for warmth but some undefined animal comfort and the intrinsic need to bulwark Dawn with their bodies. She didn’t think she slept, but when finally she let her head rest down on the pillow the moon was shining full through the window and illuminating Spike’s pale skin like snow.
She shuddered, remembering her unease at the mouth of the cave like a shadow of foresight. Bad image; no more snow for Buffy, not for the next forever or so.
“Spike?”
“Yeah?”
In the half-light the whites of his eyes gleamed but the irises were dark.
“We need to get Willow to put a spell on the house. Something to protect against demons, like with Glory.”
“Can do it first thing in the morning. I’ll stay here with the niblet.”
“Yeah, good. That’s good.” She gazed at him across the pillow, an intense upwelling of gratitude and fellowship pouring through her, hot and so hard it was choking. “I’m counting on you,” she whispered, “to help me protect her.”
In the dark center of his eyes, fire bloomed like the amber flower of an explosion. “’Til the end of the world.”
God, how good it felt, to have someone say that and know it was true. Feel it.
“Spike? Are we… are we good?”
He didn’t even pause, or pretend like he didn’t know what she meant. He just said, “Yeah, Slayer. We’re good.”
Carefully so as not to wake her, Buffy slid her fingers through his hand on Dawn’s chest, and let out a long, long breath.
“Think we’ll laugh about this when we’re old and grey?” he asked a few minutes later, the faintest humor edging his mouth. “Tell her about the time she slept right through an attempt on her life?”
Buffy huffed a soundless laugh at the thought of either of them aging enough to get grey hairs, before she sobered. It wouldn’t be the only time, she realized; this was just the first, and her grief was like the black of drowning, the weight of water on her lungs.
“Hey now,” Spike said, untangling his hand from hers to catch the tear with a swipe of his thumb as it ran down the side of her nose. Damn him and his night vision; of course he could see her perfectly.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “It’ll never stop. She’s just like me, only without the fifteen year grace period. She’ll be hunted all her life for something she didn’t even have a say in. And as for the old part - I’m the slayer. God, Spike, do you even-”
“Course I do, love,” he interrupted gently. “Used to hunt your kind, remember? You might have heard something about it.” His eyes danced when she glared at him. “But I’m on a mission, see. Very important, world-saving kind of gig. Time was, I would’ve just protected you and the little bit with my life because I loved you, but now I’ve gone all warrior of light, with this higher purpose and all, so you can pretty much guarantee - ah, knew I could get a grin.”
Buffy swatted him lightly before swiping at her face. “Not funny.”
“Wasn’t really joking,” he said with a soft smile. “Not about the important parts. Told you already, ‘til the end of the world. You know what means, kitten? Come what may, no matter what, come hell or high water-”
“Okay, okay, I get it.”
“Good.” He turned serious. “She’s gonna have both of us, Slayer, for a very long time. We’ve got an apocalypse to stop, if you recall. So, sorry pet, but you’re stuck with me.”
“For twenty-one years, huh?”
“And I’ll tell you now, there’s nothing we’ll come up against that’s good enough to best us in the meantime.”
It was a nice thought, even if experience had taught her the lie beneath the swaggering words. She’d already died once, and destiny seemed ready to punch her ticket again in a little over five years’ time. But then again Spike had always been the wild card in the deck and he should have died himself (again) but didn’t. She searched his face for even a flicker of uncertainty and, finding none, realized then that it wasn’t that he believed himself invincible, or destined, or chosen, but that he believed in himself, and her too. Her most of all. It was strangely humbling.
“Yeah, okay,” she said softly. “Okay.”
*
Later in that long night, Buffy sat propped against the pillows nursing Dawn, idly watching Spike’s sleeping form stretched out beside her with a guileless, half-awake interest; merely something pleasing to rest her gritty eyes on. The still lines of his body were long and lithe, skin taking on a bluish tinge in the moonlight, hair rumpled and curling at the ends. Take the clothes off and he could have been a marble sculpture in some art museum somewhere, Vampire in Repose.
Hmm, Spike without clothes. Interesting thought.
It caught her attention when he started breathing, because he didn’t usually, in sleep - strange, shallow, stuttering breaths. Was he dreaming? She had never thought to wonder before if vampires dreamed. No, wait, hadn’t he said once he dreamed of her? Not this time, though, not unless Spike was a better actor than she’d ever given him credit for; Buffy was pretty certain he’d never been afraid of her.
“Hey,” she said quietly, prodding his thigh with her toe. “Wake up.”
His chest stilled and his eyes opened. Nothing more dramatic than that. But something about the set of his face sent a chill down her back.
“Oh. Just a dream,” he said, voice thin, and the hollowness of it made it sound almost a question.
She sat for a moment in silence, looking down on the emotions that chased across his face like clouds across the moon, waiting to see if anything else was going to be forthcoming.
“You okay?” she asked eventually, when nothing was.
He rose silently, turning his back on her as he sat on the edge of the bed.
“Sometimes…” he stopped when his voice cracked, and turned his head away so that she could see nothing of his face. “I’m so full of it, Buffy. What I said in the cave, it’s not true. Much as I may wish it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have these dreams. About things I’ve done.” His shoulders drew up. “Nightmares.”
“Oh,” she said. “Weird.”
He laughed darkly, and then was silent.
At her breast, Dawn had slowed down from frantic hunger to slower, drowsy sucking, body gradually becoming slack and heavy. She loved this moment, the way her whole being seemed to melt into Buffy’s arms. Dawn was eating solids now and it would be time to wean her soon, but Buffy knew she would miss this, a realization as unexpected a few months ago as the pity she now felt for the guilty vampire at her side.
“Hey,” she said with tired solemnity. “I’m sorry.”
Turning back he looked at her over his shoulder, but his face was completely in shadow. “No you aren’t. It’s no more than I deserve for my sins, isn’t that right?”
“I meant, that it’s hard.” Sleepily, she stroked a finger across Dawn’s temple to one sweet little sticky-out ear-tip. Not everything he’d done was bad. But, “How does that even work, anyway?”
In the dark, she saw him touch his chest. “The spark,” he said simply. “It’s catching.”
Her mind was slow with exhaustion, but it brought with it a quiet clarity, too - California native that she was, brought up on Smokey Bear slogans and looping apocalyptic footage on the news channels every summer, Buffy understood the power such a thing could wield.
“Be careful,” she said, tongue feeling as heavy as her eyelids. “The redwoods need those fires to get born, but if you get caught in the flames you’re toast.”
There was a moment in which Buffy absolutely did not fall asleep, head jerking precipitously, and then came Spike’s voice, a deep, comforting rumble, “Haven’t got a clue what you’re on about, pet, but trees aren’t born, they germinate.”
“Whatever.”
“You get some sleep now, sun’ll be up soon.”
She felt him lift Dawn and settle her between them once more, pull Buffy’s sweater back into place, and lie back down. She rolled to her side and blindly reached out, heavy hand falling to hook around his left biceps, arm like a safety barrier over the baby.
“Have you thought about feeding?” she murmured. “Since the chip?”
She felt him take a long, slow breath, muscle bunching in his arm. She felt so heavy, paralyzed with it, but held back the encroaching darkness of sleep to wait for the answer. “Yeah,” he said on the exhale. “Know it’s wrong, but - dusted a vamp while he was feeding. The chit was unconscious and bleeding and I… thought about it.”
“But you didn’t.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Made a promise to a lady.”
“That all?”
Another slow inhale, voice coming then in an undertone. “Felt… felt this gnawing sensation from inside. Bit out of practice, but I think it was… Christ, think it was shame, Buffy. Couldn’t have done it even if you hadn’t spelled it out for me.”
She’d warned, back on her porch, she’d warned him it wouldn’t be easy, but her last thought as she conceded defeat against unconsciousness was how greatly he’d transcended her expectations.
*
“Buffy?” Mom’s voice floated up from downstairs. “Honey, you’re going to be late.”
“Not if the floor opens up and swallows me first,” Buffy muttered, staring aghast at herself in the long mirror. She turned pleading eyes to Willow’s reflection, standing at Buffy’s shoulder. “You could do that, right?”
“Hey, remember Cathy? ‘Cause you know that actually happened that one time,” Willow said with false cheer.
Buffy stared dumbly for another few seconds at the toxic green monstrosity of a bridesmaid’s dress before shaking herself and gathering up her things: purse, lip-gloss, stake, diaper bag. No point prolonging the horror.
“Spike?” she yelled on her way past the bathroom, “You ready?”
“I was turned ready, Slayer,” came the groan-worthy response, but she couldn’t help a snort when, a moment later, it was followed by a string of the kind of cute-talk that had become ever more familiar since he’d practically moved into their basement last month. She heard Dawn’s babbling reply, and the sticky snap of diaper fastenings. Who’d have thought… well, any of this? But Spike living in her house being Daddy Daycare so that her mom could go back to work full time and Buffy could get more time for studying was particularly miraculous. Even more so, how much he wanted to do it. And how good he’d turned out to be.
“Meet you downstairs,” she told him, just as thunder rolled.
“There you are.” Mom was waiting in the foyer. “I told you it looked like rain - do you have an umbrella?” she asked, peeking out through the panes in the front door.
“Mom, we have about a zillion in the basement.” Given the climate, on the few occasions it actually rained, they somehow always ended up getting caught in it and having to buy new umbrellas. It had become a thing, over the years, to try and find the brightest or most obnoxiously patterned one possible. At this thought, Buffy brightened. “There’s probably even something that’d match my ensemble. Do we still have that one that looks like Slimer from Ghostbusters?”
Mom gave her a look. “Because the most important thing when wearing Kermit-green is to have matching accessories.”
“Damn straight,” Buffy said with a firm nod, lifting her hem to reveal the pumps she’d had dyed specially.
Joyce put her hand to her chest in mock dismay. “Oh god, what did I bring into the world?” The sound of a car pulling up to the driveway prevented a witty comeback. “Well, that’s my ride. I guess I’ll see you after the ceremony.”
“Say hi to Brian for me,” she said, waving from the open door. Another roll of thunder tumbled across the grey sky as Joyce walked to the car, and just made it safely inside before the rain came down, a swift sheet of fat, splashy drops that had soaked the sidewalk in moments.
Buffy sighed, looking up at the waterfall coming over the guttering. “Let’s just hope this isn’t an omen.”
“Uh, remember where we are, pet,” Spike’s voice came from behind her, closer than she’d have expected. “Hellmouth ringing any bells? Probably best not to say things like that.”
“Oh, right.”
When she turned, Spike took one look at her expression and broke into a broad smile, the nice one that made his eyes crinkle. “Look at that lip,” he said, reaching up to poke her lower lip with his forefinger before she swatted it away. She ignored the little twinge in her chest at the moment she knew he was referring to - and how weird was it to have that kind of friendly short-hand with Spike nowadays? - when she had been blindingly happy and planning her own wedding.
“If you ruin my makeup I’ll kick you up and down the reception hall.”
“You could try,” he said, smile sharpening to an evil smirk, the effect of which was somewhat hampered by the baby in frilly green clutched at his side.
“Hi cutie-pie,” she said, holding out her arms for Dawn. “How come you still look adorable in radioactive satin, huh? No fair.”
Dawn flapped her arms excitedly but was otherwise unforthcoming.
“Oh I don’t know, your outfit has its charms,” Spike said, letting his eyes drop to her hips where the mermaid-style cut clung to her figure. She shoved his shoulder good-naturedly - or what qualified as such between them, so that he only stumbled back and didn’t fall flat on his ass - but he just smiled again, touching her lightly on the cheek with his left hand, Dawn’s cheek with his right. “Both my girls look beautiful.”
She only realized she’d been smiling too when she felt it become rigid with awkwardness. With Spike living with them now, she’d been extra careful to keep things in check between them. The night the First had sent the demon after Dawn had made a lot of things clear to her: that she and Spike were a team; that she couldn’t risk messing things up between them for Dawn’s sake. Her baby had to come first, and Dawnie needed them both, and on good terms with each other. Buffy was fine with that, now. Completely, utterly… fine…
“Spike,” she said, the word coming out like an apology as his touch lingered, the familiar adoring light in his eyes. “I-”
He blinked and shook his head slightly as if to clear it. “Right,” he said, the slightest hint of self-consciousness, “time to go. Where’s Red?”
“Here,” Willow said, coming from the kitchen holding out a selection of umbrellas in tartan, polka dot and paisley. “Take your pick! I’ve put a little charm on them to keep us extra dry.”
“Something wrong with plain black?” Spike groused.
“Nope,” Willow said with a pleased grin and flicked a bolt of light at the paisley umbrella, turning it plain black. Spike took it wordlessly and Willow pouted, complaining about his lack of effusive gratitude as they all made for the car together.
*
“I can’t believe it’s raining on my wedding day,” Anya said, wringing her hands as she stood on her little plinth in her lingerie and eye-mask while the others tried to figure out how to get her frothy white dress over her head. “I mean, this is Southern California. It only rains about once a decade and it had to be today?”
“Drip, drip, drop little - March - showers,” Tara said with a small, wry smile at Willow. Buffy was relieved to see it, after their latest quarrel. It hadn’t been anything uber serious, as far as Willow had told her, but whenever any of her friends fought it gave her a tummy full of knots.
“Well, don’t look at me,” Willow said. “I’ve never had any success messing with the elements.”
Anya huffed but Tara’s smile widened.
“Hey, on the plus side, Spike’s way less likely to burst into flames on a day like this,” Buffy pointed out.
“Well, I guess that’s true,” Anya said, as though she really didn’t rate that as important, but was trying not to show it. “Vampire dust is so hard to get out of the carpets and I would very much like to get the security deposit back.”
They finally managed to get her into her dress without pulling out her hair or getting anyone’s lipstick on the train, and Buffy watched with a feeling of contentment as Willow and Tara stood closer than was really necessary to fasten the buttons on the bodice.
“So as best man, shouldn’t you be…?” she asked slyly.
Willow glanced up, looking conflicted, and Buffy brushed it aside with a wave of her hand.
“You guys have got it covered here, I’ll go.”
“Yes, thank you, Buffy,” Anya said, “Xander will probably need your Slayer strength to get him into his cummerbund if his excessive food consumption of the last week is anything to go by.”
“Ah, true love,” Buffy murmured in amusement as she closed the door to Anya’s hotel room behind her. Xander’s room was on the other side of the hall where the ceremony would be taking place. As she crossed it, Buffy took note of how it was filling up already, demons and humans co-existing peacefully amid the canapés - for now.
At the back of the hall was Spike, Dawn in the stroller at his side. He stood alone, hands in his pockets and one foot propped against the wall behind him, wearing the vague sort of scowl that he usually used to repel the peons from trying to make small talk. To her, he just looked uncomfortable. She didn’t know why, though, and with Spike it really could be anything, but it wasn’t in her nature to pass up an opportunity like that.
“Hey Spikey,” she said loudly as she passed, flashing him a brilliant smile, “could you give her a snack while we’re waiting to get started?”
She didn’t stop to see his reaction, confident that the group of nearby women who’d been side-eyeing him wouldn’t be able to resist crowding around the spectacle of the big bad punk guy, stubbornly dressed in black jeans and biker boots, passing the cute little ten month-old girl cheerios from a Tupperware container, and the way he couldn’t - just couldn’t - keep up the attitude when Dawn was looking at him.
Something about it bothered her, though, the way he was stood back there by himself. As though he was still unsure of his place within their little Scooby circle. It only occurred to her as she reached Xander’s door that he was the only one of them aside from Giles without a role to play in the day’s festivities, and Giles hadn’t been able to come. Of course, Mom and Brian were around somewhere, so it wasn’t like he was alone. But the feeling of unease wouldn’t quite leave her as she pushed the door open, ready to do battle with the groom’s waistline.
*
An inordinate amount of time later, dress ripped to the thigh, cheek throbbing and hair hastily repaired, Buffy managed to maneuver herself around the slew of other women vying for his attention and nab a still-slightly-damp Xander for a dance. She felt his wedding band against her fingers, hard metal warmed by skin, and the last little bit of tension in her body unwound. They were good, no one was dead or permanently injured, and most importantly:
“You went through with it.”
She said it softly, with wonder, smiling up at him with eyes that felt more than a little glittery.
“I know! I’m still kind of amazed myself.” Xander puffed out a breath, cheeks filling like balloons, like a cartoon character that’d made a narrow escape. “Couple days ago, I told Anya how our wedding and our marriage were two different things and I gotta tell ya, I’m so glad I got the one out of the way because I can’t wait to start enjoying the other.”
Buffy sniffed and smiled, and moved in closer to rest her head on his chest.
“You did good, Xand.”
“Yeah. Overcoming crippling fear is actually pretty awesome. You know what’s weird, though?” He paused and Buffy pulled back slightly to look up at him again. “Even before Grampa Xander went all demony, I knew something was up, because in all this time? Spike’s never mentioned Anya and me not being together. And come on, it’s not like either of us is Miss Manners, we’ll never be buddies - he so would’ve said something in the heat of the moment, you know? If he thought it would piss me off.”
Buffy’s eyes fell to his shoulder, over which she could just make out the vamp in question, edging around the crowd with Dawnie in tow, and remembered the conversation they’d had at Christmas. They’d decided together not to say anything; the future was already different now, especially now. It was impossible to know what might have happened, but she had a sense, that wind-whipped, slightly giddy sense, of a crisis just barely averted. That, and a distant feeling of annoyance that Xander would underestimate him so badly. But then, there were sides to Spike that only she really saw - living with him, she’d come to realize that lately.
“Got a new-found Spike appreciation, huh?” she teased.
“Well, you know, he is strong and mysterious and sort of compact, but well-muscled. But I’m a married man now - my vampire-diddling days are over. Oh, wait, I got us confused for a moment there.” And he gave her a pointed look.
His tone was affable enough, though, and Buffy responded in kind, thwapping him playfully.
“Geez, how many times do I have to say it? Magical baby, Xander. Ma-gi-cal. As in, she who was not acquired through conventional means? As in, no diddling!” Buffy knew, though, even as she said it, that the requisite level of outrage just wasn’t there anymore, and even Xander could see it. There was a pause that went on a moment too long.
“So you guys…?” he asked lightly, but when she looked up she could see him wincing just beneath the surface, and blushed deeply in embarrassment. Spilling to Willow was one thing. Talking about guys - or, well, love interests - was a long and time-honored tradition between them, hailing back to high school. Spilling to Xander was much less natural and suddenly somehow beyond uncomfortable.
“It’s complicated,” she said, attention caught once more by Spike, now over by the buffet table, starting to look harassed by a middle-aged couple cooing over Dawnie.
“Look,” Xander said, the hand on her waist digging in a little as he tensed. “Can I say something? I know you probably don’t want to hear it, and it’s probably not my business, but I’m gonna say it anyway. So this’ll go easier if you just listen.”
“O-okay,” Buffy said slowly.
“Right. You know the only reason I flipped out over the whole ‘me Spike Vader, you Dawn Skywalker’ thing was because I was worried about, uh, this.” He jerked his head in the general direction of the buffet.
“Finger sandwiches? Ooh, is the filling demonic? I thought that horseradish was kinda lively.”
“No,” he said patiently. “This, this thing between you and Spike, whatever it is. And before you say anything, just, just hear me out, okay? It’s not just that he’s another vampire in your life, and now even more impossible to get rid of than before - it isn’t,” he protested at her raised eyebrows. “Although, okay, that didn’t exactly play a small part. Buffy, I know what it means to you for Dawn to have a father. But, look, I’m coming from the opposite direction when it comes to family harmony.” He waltzed her around so she could get a good look at where his mother and father were both getting rapidly drunk at opposite ends of the bar. “They stayed together for me. Do you know what that felt like, growing up, knowing all of - that - was on my head?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, stunned. She’d never thought about it like that before. When her mom and dad had fought it had always been bad, but they’d mostly kept it away from her, never badmouthed each other in her presence, and were ultimately happier apart. Maybe a little too happy in her dad’s case. And sure, the slaying hadn’t helped - she still had her insecurities about what role that had played in the whole slow-motion pile up that was the months leading up to the divorce. But, lucky nineteen aside, at least her parents had tried to never let her feel like it was her fault. The thought of little Xander alone in a sea of animosity made her want to hug him tighter, so she did.
“Urgh, Buff?” He tapped her urgently on the shoulder, making a gurgling sound. “Little air?”
“Oh, right.” She eased up. “Sorry.”
“They hate each other,” he continued, shaking his head almost in awe as his eyes fell on his parents again. “I just… I worry, you know? Because Dawn deserves better.”
Buffy looked up at that, raising her head with a frown. “I don’t hate Spike.”
Xander sighed, expression resigned. “Yeah, getting that lately.” He spun her again, twirling her under his arm in an ostentatious flourish. “But is not-hating him enough?” He dipped her back as the song finished and their eyes met, weighty with uncharacteristic gravity. Then she was upright and being cut out by an overzealous Anya dragging him over toward the cake.
A crowd had instantly formed, leaving Buffy in its lee for a moment as she gathered herself back in. Was not-hate enough? Probably not, but what she felt for Spike had ridden right past the sign to not-hatesville a long time ago. She caught sight of him lifting Dawn up to his shoulders so she could see what was going on, little hands grabbing tufts of bleach blond hair, loosing Spike’s ridiculous curls from the gel. She could see him glancing up with a look of chagrin, but leaving her to it, and Buffy felt her heart swell.
She watched them for a couple of minutes until the crowd had more or less formed a line, then slunk up beside them and slid her hands around his waist, going up on her tiptoes to hook her chin over his shoulder.
“Hey,” she said, before play-biting Dawn’s gorgeously chubby thigh.
“Hey,” Spike replied. She made to step back but he caught her, letting go of Dawn with one hand to slide it over the place where her hands met. The woman in line in front of them turned around and smiled indulgently at them.
“This must be your wife,” she said to Spike. “Hi, I’m Loreen, Xander’s cousin. William was just telling me all about Dawnie’s mama.”
She felt Spike stiffen, his hand tightening subtly on hers in a way that made her wonder if he even realized he was doing it. Xander’s warning was still clear in her mind, and yet, somehow she didn’t feel put off. Almost the opposite, filled with fondness for her partner in crime. She could make a fuss, point out the woman’s mistake, but really? No point. Loreen would just get embarrassed and Spike’d get all sore, and then the nice moment would be gone.
So she just said, “Hi, I’m Buffy,” smiled nicely, then disentangled herself from Spike enough to nudge him away. “Come on, I wanna dance.”
“You don’t want cake? It’s chocolate. Was gonna get some for you and the niblet.”
She had to look down to hide her smile and the warm flush of pleasure in her cheeks. God, weddings made her sentimental. “She’s only got four teeth. I think we can wait another day before we start ruining them.”
They danced together with Dawnie for a little bit, moving around each other easily and having fun throwing her up and twirling her around between them while the dance floor was still fairly empty. But as more people drifted away from their desserts back to dancing, Buffy found herself necessarily moving closer to Spike, hands brushing, or arms, or eyes.
“Wait here,” she said, refusing to think too hard about it, and took Dawn over to her mom at their table before coming back alone.
Hemmed in close, under the mood lighting and mirror ball, she touched Spike’s arms just above the elbow before letting her fingers trail down his sleeves to his hands, and watched his fingers twitch at the touch of skin on skin.
He took her hands and leaned close, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “May I have this dance?” The cheesy words were somehow seductive in his voice, the feel of his breath prompting a full-body shiver. When he drew back just a little, his eyes were intent and she was drawn helplessly into him in a way she was now absolutely certain was intentional.
“This how you used to catch your prey?” she asked, moving slowly against him. Her body was languid, hot, the skin of her face tingling and tight. He didn’t answer, and that was probably for the best; she didn’t know why she sometimes felt compelled to prod at the delicate scab that divided their present from his past, but perhaps the reassurance that he didn’t want to brag about it was explanation enough. She didn’t examine the twinge of jealousy, or the nagging thought that without his sire’s skill in thrall, the prey had to be at least a little bit willing.
She met his eyes and turned slowly, arms above her head, swaying to the music. His hands on her hips should have been a surprise - the feel of his body pressed against her back, his lips an inch from her neck, should have been unwelcome. Instead she felt herself moving with him as though they had done it a thousand times before. All we’ve ever done is dance, she remembered him saying, that night she thought she would lose the pregnancy from a stake to her side. The night she’d confessed hysterically to Riley and he’d run. The night Spike had come to her back porch with a shotgun, and instead of trying to shoot her, held her hair back as the nausea came and sat beside her when the tears did.
She was dimly aware that they were moving to the edge of the dance floor. She had turned again and placed her hands on his chest, fingering the lapels of his leather jacket. It felt new, and stiffer than his old duster, which still hung in Dawn’s room and with which she would never admit to being so familiar. The way he was looking at her was making her blood boil, like she used to feel when they fought as enemies, when she hated him, except now it really was very definitely not-hate she was feeling, though something of the aggression remained. A distant part of her mind marveled at how quickly things had heated up between them, but then they were out in the corridor and the only thing Buffy wanted to think about was the feel of Spike’s mouth as she shoved him into the wall and buried herself in kissing him.
Oh god, why - why had she been denying herself this? They were pressed together the whole length of their bodies, her arms around his neck, hands buried in his hair, and the feel of his cool, firm chest against her breasts, his tongue in the furnace of her mouth, was incredible. His hands cupped her face with a tenderness belied by the way he attacked her mouth, and she realized they were still dancing, that he’d been right, and why he hadn’t been able to use that damn shotgun like he’d wanted that night because that, too, was all part of the same thing.
She could feel his excitement pressing into her, made bulky and rough by the denim of his fly, and she found herself rubbing against him like a cat in heat, alien sounds being wrung from her throat.
“Christ, Buffy,” he groaned as her hands found his ass and pulled him tighter against her, his head falling back against the wall. Presented with his Adam’s apple she licked a stripe along his neck before grazing corded muscle with her teeth. She must have found a sensitive spot because his knees seemed to buckle and they were stumbling to the side for a moment before righting themselves. It put distance between them, her hands on the wall and his shoulder, his on her upper arms. She took in his expression and smiled the slow grin of a predator, but when she tried to swoop back in on him, he restrained her, and held her at arm’s length.
He was panting, wrecked, staring into her eyes with helpless passion and an earnestness that bordered on desperation, and his voice was hoarse when he said, “Tread softly, Slayer.”
It took a moment, through her addled and overheated brain, to process what he was saying, focused more on the tantalizing movement of his lips than the words they uttered. But when she did, it came to her in Professor Lillian’s voice, and sweeping insight gentled the straining of her body. She paused, and considered him.
“He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven? Thought you were more a leather and denim kind of guy.”
The look he gave her then flashed fire, a roil of furious heat like opening the oven door. Instinctively she made to step back, but he kept her from that too. “What do you want from me, Buffy? Need to hear you say it because god knows every time I think I’ve got it figured out you go changing the rules on me and a bloke can only-”
He cut himself off, jaw clenching, nostrils flaring, a trapped animal.
No. No. Not an animal. Just trapped.
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Looking into his darkened eyes she thought of the way his innuendos had become kind of safe recently, and his isolation at the back of the hall earlier. The look on his face when she’d unwittingly re-invited him into the house, and the way he always managed to restrain himself when… with the kissing stuff and…
“You’re afraid,” she said, astounded. “Of me.”
The muscle in his jaw ticked and he looked away over her shoulder. “Buffy you know I want you, more than anything, but you, you’re confused. I can feel you want me - can smell it on you - so I could push, right, follow the instincts that are screaming at me to throw you down and fuck you through the floor, but then what? I get it wrong, bollocks things up somehow, and you decide to change the locks on me again? Bar me from-” he faltered as though winded. “I can’t risk it, I won’t, so ball’s in your court, love, just like it’s always been. And I’ll keep hanging on by a thread. But please, for chrissakes Buffy, just tell me.”
It staggered her, the power she held over him. Not just his love for her, now, but for Dawn, which was pure and unselfish in a way that shouldn’t have been possible and yet was beyond doubt. How deep his fear must go, to hold him back from leaping headlong into whatever it was she kept offering him. She could see in his face both the aching hope that they’d continue what they’d been doing, and the crushing dread of what she could take from him if he didn’t get it right.
“Buffy,” he said again, hands like bands of steel around her arms. “Do you even know why you want me? Is it even for me?”
He’s the mystical equivalent of a sperm donor, Buffy.
They hate each other. Dawn deserves better.
People expect a child’s parents to be attracted to one another, don’t they?
She closed her eyes, trembling now and unequal to meeting that look for another second. Something small and young and smarting curled up inside her in a tight, stunned ball.
“I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” she said. “I don’t want that.”
Feeling like a coward, she opened her eyes and forced steel back into her spine. “Spike, you’re good now, and you’re Dawnie’s father. No matter how I - I feel about you, I will never keep you from her. Never.” She scanned his face intently. “I’m so sorry you didn’t know that.”
They stared at each other and Buffy realized her hands were clenched in his jacket, hard enough to bruise the leather. For a moment she didn’t know who was pushing and who pulling, locked this small but substantial distance from each other.
“Slayer, Vampire,” he croaked, by way of explanation.
Forcing her hands to loosen their grip, she did her best to smooth the wrinkles.
“Just stick to the light side of the force and we’re all good here.”
He nodded, utterly serious, chest rising and falling in short, steadying breaths and eyes brimful of something so bright it was hard to look at; impossible to look away.
“Didn’t answer my question, pet, don’t think I didn’t notice that. But I like what you said a whole lot better so I won’t push you on it. For now.”
He looked kind of shell shocked, which was the only reason Buffy restrained herself from rolling her eyes, being fairly certain that the whole point of what she had just said was that he could push back, and argue, and disagree, and question, and boy howdy was she gonna regret that when he caught up to it.
His focus lay elsewhere at that moment, however. Slowly, haltingly, and watching her eyes the entire time, Spike softened his hands and pulled her into him until they were cheek to cheek, chest to chest, hip to hip. She waited, forcing herself to relax, heart thudding in her chest. He would hear it, but how he interpreted it was up to him. She wanted to see what he would do, now that she’d unshackled him.
A kiss on her cheek was followed by another and another, firm, slow, sweet kisses that trailed to the corner of her mouth. Cupping her jaw he tilted her face up until their eyes met for a moment thick and slow as molasses, before lowering his mouth to hers. This kiss was deep and unhurried, sweet in an entirely different way, and before Buffy knew it, it was her being pressed into the wall and groaning weak-kneed into Spike’s mouth as his hands began a slow and very circuitous exploration of her body. Wow was she kinda glad for that thigh-high tear in her dress now, because-
“Willow, sweetie? Did you find th- oh. There they are.”
Buffy almost jumped out of her skin, shoving Spike off her convulsively before she realized who it was. Tara had turned a deep shade of red, looking determinedly at the wall but also failing to hide the quirking of her mouth as she said, “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“No. No,” Buffy said too brightly, surreptitiously trying to straighten her dress. “We were just… uh. Is everything all right?”
“Your mom asked us to look for you. She’s getting ready to leave. With Brian? I think she wants to say goodbye and, you know, offload Dawnie.”
“Right,” Buffy said. “Of course.” She didn’t move.
“I’ll just…” Tara motioned over her shoulder. “I’ll go let them know you’re coming.”
For a moment, Buffy just stared after her, and then she sighed and turned to Spike. “We should…”
“Yeah.”
He was giving her a funny look, and she frowned at him. “What?”
“Just waiting for the back-pedaling and apologies. Running away, virtue fluttering? Isn’t that usually what happens about now?”
This time she did roll her eyes. “Have you seen these heels? This is not a run-friendly ensemble.”
“Seen you in worse.” He watched her from beneath his brow. “Fought you in worse. Point of fact, got a very fond memory of a snappy little outfit you wore this one time-”
She thwapped him. “You’re a pig, Spike. And I was trying to be all metaphory. ‘Cause I know you know I strangled a seven foot demon in this outfit earlier - you watched me. The heels are so not the point.”
He ducked his head. “Ah, well then.”
He took her hand, not in a helping-you-up kind of way, or even a pulling-you-along kind of way, but fingers woven together, in a boyfriend-girlfriend kind of way. His face was a challenge, but underneath there was something boyish and so unexpectedly insecure that Buffy’s immediate instinct was to squeeze his hand in reassurance.
“We’re not done here,” she told him, and didn’t let go until they had pushed back through the doors to the reception party.
Chapter Index | Part 2